


Wine to Water

by cherrywood



Category: Sugar Pine 7
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Self-Hatred, kinda character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrywood/pseuds/cherrywood
Summary: James doesn't know what he's doing anymore, but he knows why.





	Wine to Water

**Author's Note:**

> that tone shift in akrasia fucked me up and somehow it became this..... written before the two most recent sp7 eps

James doesn't know what he’s doing anymore. 

He blames it on the alcohol. The stench of liquor seems permanently stuck in his hair and on his clothes. It's overpowering the smokey scent that had been trailing him since Cib and Steve had spent nearly four hours trying to make a doughnut out of vape.

Steve isn’t here now, and neither is Parker. Not much of a boy’s night out. 

Four minus two. 

But Steve isn’t dead, Steve is at home, in bed most likely. He’s not at some abandoned park sitting on top of a picnic table at three am chugging a bottle of coconut Captain Morgan and thinking about what it would be like to kiss your best friend. Your best friend that killed your other best friend. Your best friend that killed your other best friend because he thought he was fucking his girlfriend. 

It’s a mess and the guilt is really fucking with his head, but Cib’s stupidly delicate hand is splayed out on James’ thigh, palm down and finger clenched loosely around it. It would normally be a sign, a come-on. The hand is too high up to be just a friendly touch, and the fingers are tight enough to mean something, except that it’s _Cib_ , who is always this touchy but never this desperate. 

And James should really know better than to play with fire because Cib is already burning him. Just that one hand on his leg is lighting his insides into an inferno, twisting them about until they’re left charred and useless.

He feels useless, especially as he puts his own hand on top of Cib’s and waits to be shot down. He wants to be punched or yelled at, for taking all the signs the wrong way, but he doesn’t expect Cib to actually go through on these inner wishes and hurt him, he’s not the type. Though he hadn’t expected him to be a murderer either, but here they were, just the two of them in this stupid fucking park. Left alone to make bad choices together. 

Cib looks at him, and for the first time in forever James feels like he can actually see him and there is so much fear, so much guilt, so much hate, in his eyes that it’s almost like looking into a mirror. There’s an honesty that comes with getting drunk, and they’ve been drunk together before but never like this. Never alone, never this broken and raw. 

James knows that they try not to think about Parker, that all three of them are just one thought away from telling the police or fucking killing themselves, Cib probably the most. They all are so fucking guilty and it’s really going to kill them. God is going to strike them down at some point and they are going to deserve it like nothing else, but until then what’s one more sin? 

He leans forward and kisses Cib and he can taste the irony on his tongue, so thick that he can feel himself choke on it. 

He wonders if this will get him killed. He wonders if Sami Jo is a murderer like her boyfriend is. He wonders if he could fight her off. He wonders if he would bother trying to. 

He wonders all this as his hands wander aimlessly down Cib’s back, resting on his hips before starting back up again, trailing the sloping ridges of his spine and fitting in the spaces between his ribs like they belong there. 

Painted nails wrap around his wrist as Cib keens into his touch, a moan that sounds like heaven and hell have collided together just for this one moment. Cib could probably do that, if anyone could get the devil and God on the same page it would be him. 

But he can’t think about God right now, not when Cib is biting his bottom lip with white teeth and his dark eyes are even more black than usual and James can’t really think about anything else but the way his veins throb with heat. 

(Does that make him a sinner? Is this the line he finally crosses or was believing that he hadn't he long since gone passed it wishful thinking?) 

There are words they need to say before this continues but all James can get out of his stupid, compromised brain is a low, “Is this okay?” 

It’s not okay, and Cib doesn't bother to answer with much more than a slight nod before he clambers into his lap, long limbs fitting strangely well.

And Cib is normally so talkative, always spouting nonsense. The charmer of the group, in his own weird way. His silence is as unnerving as it is telling. Neither of them are that drunk. They know what they’re doing, they know it’s wrong, but that doesn't stop James from pulling Cib’s headband off and tossing it to the side so that he can more easily card his fingers through Cib’s soft hair, using his other hand to rub soothing circles along his waist. 

James really doesn't know what he’s doing as he lets Cib push him so that his back hits the hardwood of the table. They’re still in public technically, even if this park is in the middle of nowhere and it’s the time of night when you don’t know whether to say it’s late or early. Anyone could still walk by and see them making out like teenagers. 

It doesn’t stop them. 

Cib leans back so that he’s sitting on James’ thighs before pulling his zipper down and snaking his hand into his pants. His palms are clammy with sweat, and James feels comfort at the fact that he’s not the only one floundering here. They are so out of their element. 

God, what would Steve say if he found out? 

James wishes he could hold onto that thought, to let the image of Steve’s horrified face ground and bring him back into his right mind in ways that only Steve could, hypothetical or not. He needed to be sobered him up in more ways than one right now. 

But there’s a hand on his dick, _Cib’s_ hand on his dick and it feels like a sin but it also feels like heaven and James can finally understand why Eve ate the apple because here he is with his pants undone on a park bench in the middle of a warm August, devouring his fucking apple in inhumanly large bites and he can’t even think to beg for forgiveness yet. 

(He knows that is going to come later, his knees are going to ache as much as his soul.)

The air around them is warm, sticking to their clothes and on their skin. 

Cib looks fucking ethereal in the white glow of the street light, his eyelashes fan against his cheekbones, contrasting the paleness with jet black. It makes him look fragile, like a porcelain doll just one squeeze away from cracking down the middle. 

James knows Cib is anything but fragile, knows what he can do, what he’s willing to do. He also knows that Cib’s hands are barely calloused, soft like he put lotion on before coming out tonight. He traces a finger over the tip of James’ dick, circling the head before trailing down the underside, tracing the veins like lines on a map. 

It’s so dirty, so wrong. 

James bites back a moan as Cib finally pulls his boxers down just enough so that he can wrap his hand around his shaft with a tighter grip. It’s a bit drier than James is used to, but Cib is gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. He leans down, putting his face in Cib’s hair and tries to stay quiet, scared that any noise will burst the bubble they’ve created for themselves. 

He can hear his blood rushing through his ears, blocking out the sound of his own harsh breathing as his vision tunnels in on Cib’s face. He doesn’t look sad, which is somewhat of a relief, but he doesn’t look happy either. 

He knows that they both need this, but the ever pressing weight of the fact that it’s still a bad idea press into him until he’s gasping for breath, Cib takes that as encouragement, he doesn’t look up but he does smirk slightly. His focus entirely on James’ dick and for some reason that makes heat coil around tighter in his gut. Cib is always so hyper, so hard to calm down. He’s always bouncing around from one topic of conversation to the next. It drives Steve nuts, but James has always found it more amusing than annoying. He likes this too though, being the only thing on Cib’s mind. 

And Cib is unsurprisingly good at this, his grip is firm enough without being too much. He knows how to flick his wrist at just the right moments, and when to hold back. He lets James take control near the end, and James bucks up into the softness, his hand clenched in Cib’s hair tight enough that he feels like it must hurt at least a little bit. 

His climax comes too soon, embarrassingly quick. He can’t help the slight grunt that escapes from his lungs like a confession. 

There’s an awkwardness in the immediate aftermath, that James shakes off the negative thoughts that start to bang on the walls he’s put up for the moment. Now isn’t the time for regret, that comes later when Cib isn’t still sitting on his thighs, head against his stomach and obviously hard dick straining against his too tight jeans. 

James isn’t exactly sure what the polite thing to do would be here. He can’t tell if Cib wants him to return the favor or if he just wants to sit there. He feels stupid with his pants down to his knees, dick soft against his thigh and cum drying on his leg, but Cib isn’t making any movement to get off of him and he doesn’t think it would be the greatest idea to push him off.

James shifts, trying to get in a more comfortable position. LA is anything but cold, but he feels the need to shiver anyway. Cib moves with him, adjusting so that he’s propped up with his hands on either side of James’ head, looking down at him with an intensity that makes his stomach churn with nervous energy. 

“Hey, I’m a murderer,” Cib breaks the silence James thought they had been trying to keep. He mumbles it under his breath and his voice sounds different when he’s not running his mouth talking about stupid shit. It’s soft and genuine and sad. There’s so much regret in his tone and James wonders what he’s regretting the most in the moment, try not to let it get to him. 

James doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to without lying and he’s never been a good liar. He pulls Cib down by the neck and licks the dip of his collarbone, hoping to distract him. It works, Cib lets out a slight gasp and James silences him with a kiss. He nips on Cib’s bottom lip and his mouth opens slowly, they lay like that, James leads the kiss and Cib lets him. 

Eventually, Cib starts to grind down onto his thigh, James whispers encouragements and tries not think about the implications of Cib’s particularly loud moans when he calls him a _good boy_.

It takes simultaneously years and seconds for Cib to reach his orgasm, tensing and letting out one low groan before letting his arms fall and burying his face in James’ chest. James continues to pet his hair, ignoring the new wet patch soaking through his jeans which still haven't been pulled up. 

They look like a goddamn mess. 

Cib eventually gets off him and James pulls up his pants and fixes his hair. Cib doesn’t wait for him, doesn’t even say anything as he leaves, eyes on the ground. James grabs his headband off the table, putting it in his pocket before jogging to catch up to him. 

They walk back to Cib’s shitty Civic in silence, the door unlocks with a click that jars James out of the blankness that signifies an oncoming storm in his mind. 

Cib doesn’t turn on the car when they both get in, doesn’t even turn on the radio. The key stays in his lap along with the kitschy key chains people have gotten him over the years. James got him the one with the armadillo wearing a cowboy hat and holding a shotgun at a gas station in Texas while on a road trip. He knows Steve got him the one in the shape of a martini glass because Cib didn’t believe martinis were a real thing. 

He doesn't know who the rest are from. 

“Can you ask God to forgive me?” Cib whispers, sudden enough that James almost misses it. It’s as quiet as he’s heard Cib be in, well forever. Cib has a loud personality, even his whispers can be heard by anyone who wasn’t deaf and was standing in a seven-foot radius. 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

“I don’t think he really wants to talk to me.” 

Honesty has always been one of their strong points, for whatever reason despite their extensive list of moral shortcomings none of them really lie to much. James makes an exception to this, “I’ll ask him for you.” 

He doesn’t think God wants to talk to him very much either, but if it will help Cib sleep tonight than he’s willing to pretend. 

“Thanks, James,” Cib lets it go at that, adjusts his seat so that it’s pushed down as far as it will go. “I think I’m going to take a nap.” 

He pulls a purple throw pillow out from the backseat, something that if anyone but Cib had done James might have considered it odd but as it is he accepts it. It's not the oddest thing he's seen Cib do, hell it's not even the oddest thing he's seen him do that night. 

When Cib's breathing evens out and his eyes stop fluttering James takes the headband out of his pocket and leaves it on his lap with the keychain. After a second of thought he takes off his own sweat-shirt and drapes it about Cib’s upper body, he looks like he needs it more. 

And when James leaves the car to walk the nine-mile trek home on his own, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but at least he knows why.

**Author's Note:**

> i really cant edit so if u see anything weird let a bitch know


End file.
